


Dulcius Ex Asperis

by merle_p



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-01
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Through difficulties, sweetness.</i> Returning to Cavella should have been the end, but it takes them longer to find peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dulcius Ex Asperis

They offer him the post of tribunus laticlavius of the reinstated Ninth.

At this point, it doesn't even come as a big surprise, but it is still an extraordinary honor, and gives him a feeling of such deep satisfaction that he is almost worried that nothing after this will ever feel that good.

He almost laughs into that idiot Placidus' face, still pale and soft from spending too much time inside, and right now pulled into a grimace of envy and annoyed awe. But that wouldn't do for a Roman soldier of his rang, so he bites the inside of his cheek and just smiles slightly at Governor Quintus Lollius Urbicus, bowing his head in respect when the deed is offered to him.

He can feel the papyrus crackling against his chest, where he has tucked it inside his uniform, on his way home, while steadily urging on his horse, impatient to get back to his uncle's house. Esca, to Marcus' disappointment, was not allowed to come to his meeting with the governor, and Marcus can't wait to tell him.

“He's just a plebeian, and a Briton too,” his uncle shrugged when he complained about it, and added: “If he was still your slave, you could have brought him.”

He didn't say _I told you so,_ but the reproach was audible in his voice, loud and clear, and Marcus still feels anger prickle at the back of his neck when he thinks of their first confrontation, weeks ago.

“What do you mean, you freed him?” Uncle Aquila had asked, when they had returned from the judge with the signed manumission papers. “Do you know how much I paid for him?”

“He saved my life,” Marcus had scowled. “He helped me get back the Eagle. He is my friend.”

“Well then,” his uncle had said. “Then you'd better find him something to do. You can hardly expect me to feed him now that he's not our property anymore.”

“Give me a break,” Marcus had grunted. “We just got back from the end of the world. Let us rest for a while. I promise, I'll figure something out.”

Truth is, though, that he hasn't really thought about it at all. They have been back for four weeks, and since he's recovered from his injuries, Marcus has been busy socializing. He's famous now, and popular too, and gets sent invitations to dinners, banquets or hunts almost daily. The men love to hear his tales of their adventures beyond the wall, while the women gather around him to pet his hair and feed him grapes, like he's a particularly precious animal.

He lets himself enjoy it. After all the years of listening to everyone insulting his father's honor, it feels good to hear the admiration and respect in their voices for once. After struggling for months to stay alive in the northern wilderness, it's nice to be surrounded by luxury and wealth.

And if he hasn't seen as much of Esca as he'd want to, well. Esca is a free man now, isn't he? He can do as he pleases. He must be happy too.

 

 

Esca is in the courtyard when Marcus returns, crouched on the steps to the main building in the sun, carving what looks like a little animal out of a piece of wood.

He looks up at the sound of hooves against stone, and gives Marcus a small nod, and the hint of a smile that leaves Marcus oddly disappointed.

Esca looks … less, somehow, he notices with surprise, paler than usual, skin so fair that it seems almost translucent in the light of the weak Briton sun. Marcus makes a mental note to ask him later if he sleeps enough, but it can wait for another hour.

“Guess what?” he grins, quickly dismounting and handing over the rains to the stable boy.

“What?” Esca asks, sounding mildly curious, almost indulgent. “Good news, I take it?”

“Fantastic news,” Marcus laughs, stopping in front of the steps, forcing Esca's gaze upwards.

“They are making me tribunus laticlavius of the Ninth.”

If he hadn't been so eager to see Esca's reaction, he probably wouldn't have noticed the way the other man tenses. As it is, he sees the shift in his posture all too clearly, sees the faint smile disappear from his face.

“That's … good for you,” Esca says stiffly, raising from the stairs even as he speaks.

“Is something wrong?” Marcus asks, baffled at Esca's apparent dismissal, and not just a little hurt.

Esca shakes his head. “No,” he says, and it's strange how his foreign accent suddenly seems stronger. “I'm glad that they are acknowledging your accomplishments. Congratulations, Tribunus.”

It's the _Tribunus_ that gets to him the most, leaving him stunned and staring after Esca who has long disappeared in the cool darkness of the house.

“What in Pluto's name …?” he curses. He drops heavily onto the stairs, where Esca had sat only a moment ago, and picks up the wooden figurine that he had been working on. It's not quite done yet, but Marcus can see that it's a dog, or possibly a wolf, slender body straight and tense, head lowered in submission, or maybe in defeat.

“Damn,” he growls, “what in Pluto's name.”

 

 

For the rest of the day, Esca avoids him, and the thing is, Marcus doesn't even know why. He isn't pleased, that much is obvious, but Marcus doesn't get what he could possibly be mad at him for. It occurs to him once again how little he still knows about Esca, how hard he finds it to read him, after all they've been through.

He moves the issue around in his mind, turns it over and over in his head, and when he goes to bed that night, he's restless, a constant nagging pain in his leg making it almost impossible to fall asleep.

He ends up dreaming of Hadrian's Wall, insurmountable and somber, stretching from one horizon to the other. He dreams that he is on one side of the wall, and Esca on the other, the northern side, and he knows, he knows, that he has to find a way to the other side, but there is no gate, no opening in the stone, and the wall keeps crumbling under his fingers when he tries to climb across.

In the morning, he is tired and annoyed, his leg stiff and inflexible, and when Esca still has to show his face after he's had breakfast, he decides that enough is enough.

He finds him hiding in the stable, busy grooming one of the horses. He hardly acknowledges Marcus when he enters, and Marcus feels anger rising in his chest.

“What by the balls of Zeus is your problem?” he growls, slamming a fist into the wooden door of the stable.

Esca does raise his head at that, eyes narrow and cool over the back of his horse. “What do you mean, _my_ problem?” he snaps, clearly furious as well, even if he seems to have better control over his temper.

“You,” Marcus shouts, beyond trying to keep down his voice. “I get that you are pissed that they gave me the command, I just really don't understand why. I thought you would be happy for me. Are you jealous, is that it? You must have known that there is no way …?”

“Jealous?” Esca laughs, and his chuckle is ugly and raw. “Is that what you think? You really know nothing about me.”

“Then what is it?” Marcus asks, and he hates that there is a pleading tone creeping into his voice now. “Why are you so unhappy? You got your freedom, isn't that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Esca nods, “you gave me my freedom, and I am grateful. But freedom is the only thing I have.”

“What are you talking about?” Marcus throws up his hands. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

The horse next to him whinnies, and steps sidewards, spooked by the display, and Esca steps out from behind his mare, approaching Marcus until they are chest to chest, almost touching.

“A tamed bird with clipped wings,” he says. “Set it free and it will die.” There is something odd in his eyes, beneath the anger, something painful and desperate that makes Marcus shiver.

“I have nothing, Marcus, and I have nowhere to go. I'm free, but I'm still a Briton, and I own nothing of my own. I'm a traitor to my own people, and a foreigner to yours. You saved my life, and then gave it to me, and I will always be in your debt. But don't expect me to be happy to be discarded and left behind, while you go off to slaughter whatever is left of my people.”

It feels like a punch to the stomach, and Marcus reels back from the words, dizzy and nauseous for a second.

When he can see again, Esca is breathing hard, his cheeks wet with furious tears, and Marcus helplessly watches him go, shoulder past him and out of the stable into the yard.

Dimly he thinks that this is the third time he's watched Esca leave him.

 

 

In the aftermath of their fight, Marcus' emotions are a tumble of rage, of betrayal, of guilt and hurt. The last time he felt like this, he'd pushed Esca off his horse and rolled around with him in the mud, limbs entwined in an angry fight until the Seal People had dragged them apart.

But now the northern moorlands are far away, and Marcus can hardly start a fist fight while he's still a guest in his uncle's house.

So Marcus goes out instead. A few days ago, Lucius Cornelius Scipio, one of the local senators, had sent a slave to invite 'the Roman Hero' to tonight's banquet, and Marcus remembers just in time for Stephanos to help him put on his best tunic.

He keeps looking for Esca out of the corner of his eye, anxious to get a glimpse of him and afraid of it all the same, but Esca has disappeared again, and eventually Marcus has to leave.

“Marcus Aquila,” the senator greets him enthusiastically. “So kind of you to join us for our humble feast.” He gives his shoulder a jovial pat and leads him over towards the dining hall, where a dozen people are lounging already on the couches.

“And how is your pet, Tribunus?” he asks, almost too casually, and Marcus frowns.

“My what?”

“Forgive me, Tribunus,” the senator says politely. “Your … companion.”

It takes Marcus a moment to realize that Lucius Cornelius is talking about Esca.

It takes him longer to understand that the senator thinks that they are lovers. That _everyone_ thinks they are lovers.

He feels his face heat up with humiliation, because Gods! It's not that he hasn't thought about it, it's not that he doesn't want to – he wants, _wants_ with a force that rivals the one he used to reserve for the Eagle – but Esca has never shown any indication that he would be interested in sharing a bed for more than warmth, and Marcus cannot force him. Certainly not now that he's free.

“He's not my companion,” he finally says stiffly. The senator doesn't argue, but his smile is a bit too knowingly for Marcus' taste, and shame curls into a tight knot in the pit of his stomach.

He gets drunk. He lets the senator's slaves stuff him with expensive food, and accepts the wine skin whenever it is passed to him, taking deep swallows of the heavy red, and soon the room dissolves into splatters of colors and sweet perfum, of laughter and the sounds of a lyra.

There is a woman, at some point, dark-skinned and lithe and beautiful, and he pulls her into one of the guest rooms and takes her on all fours, hands rough against her hips, mouth sloppy against her neck.

 

 

The woman is gone when he wakes the next morning, but he is covered in heavy blankets, and a breakfast is waiting for him on a tray next to the bed. The senator's hospitality clearly extends to the next day.

The sun is standing high when he returns, in rumpled clothes and with a heavy head, and his uncle meets him in the entrance hall.

“I take it dinner was good?” he asks, brows raised, and Marcus smirks, hands pressed against his temples.

“Good enough,” he replies, then realizes that the house is far too quiet for this time of day. “Where is Esca?” he asks, trying for casual.

“He is in bed,” his uncle says. He is frowning, though if he is displeased with Marcus' appearance or Esca's laziness, Marcus can't tell.

He doesn't care, either, just strides towards Esca's quarters, because he is miserable, and hangover, and he needs Esca now, needs him to apologize and bring him water and entertain him until the headache is gone.

But when he enters the room that Esca is still sharing with Stephanos – because Aquila's house is small, and Esca said he didn't care –, he stops abruptly, heart beating wildly against his ribs.

Stephanos and the physician are standing next to Esca's cot, talking quietly, but they look up when Marcus enters, faces somber. With two steps, Marcus is at Esca's bedside. Esca is moving, but he's not conscious: there are red spots on his cheekbones, flecks of dark on an otherwise chalk-white face, and a film of sweat on his forehead, making his damp hair stick to his face.

“What happened?” he asks, not caring what he must sound like. “What's wrong with him?”

The physician sighs. “He has a high fever, Sir. I'm doing what I can to get it down, but his temperature is raising still.”

“That's impossible,” Marcus says helplessly. “I talked to him yesterday, and he was fine.”

“He has not been sleeping well for weeks, Domine,” Stephanos says, without looking at him, “nor eating, for that matter. Last night he said he was not feeling well, and he started to burn up soon after you left.”

There is no inflection, no reproach in his voice, even if he'd certainly deserve it, and Marcus suddenly is reminded of the fact that Stephanos is a slave as well, that he's part of his uncle's property. If Marcus were to kill him right now for not taking better care of his friend, no one would bat an eye, no matter if Stephanos is guilty or not.

But this is not Stephanos' fault. Marcus feels the guilt heavy in his guts when he gets to his knees at the side of the bed.

Esca's skin is hot and damp under his fingers when he touches his cheek, and his eyes are closed, even if his lids are twitching violently. From this close, Marcus can see the fine lashes, the splatter of freckles on Esca's nose, the reddish-blond stubble on his chin.

“He'll be fine, though, won't he?” he asks. His voice cracks in the middle of a word.

There is a pause, and then the physician says: “I'm doing my best, Sir.”

 

 

He can't stand the pity in his uncle's look that follows him while he's pacing the courtyard, over and over during the next two days. Esca is still feverish, unconscious, and every time Marcus goes to see him, the heavy-sweet smell of sickness and burnt herbs grows stronger, and Esca looks thinner and weaker.

“It's the lungs,” the physician says, once, “he must have caught something up north, I hear it is damp and chilly up there all year around.” He sighs deeply, as if personally insulted by the irresponsible behavior of his patients. “Stubborn lot, these Britons. He let it fester, without doubt, didn't tell anyone. Now the illness has taken over the rest of his body.”

How could he not have noticed, Marcus keeps thinking, that Esca has been sick all this time. How could he not have seen, that we was so unhappy, fading away.

It's almost a relief when Senator Scipio sends for him again to talk in detail about his new command. By now, he only feels embarrassment at the thought of the night he spent at the senator's villa, but the patrician greets him as if nothing unusual happened, and maybe it didn't, Marcus thinks, when he lowers himself on the pillows spread out over the stone bench in the Senator's garden. He is a Tribune, after all: getting drunk and taking a woman to bed is nothing that people here would consider decadent.

They make boring small talk, exchanging pleasantries and harmless gossip, until the senator calls for wine and a woman approaches with a tray, kneeling at her master's feet to pour the wine.

She doesn't look up at him, dark curls hiding her face from view, but with a sick feeling spreading in his stomach, Marcus realizes that he knows who she is anyway.

The woman that he bedded three nights ago was a slave, and what he thought was eager consent was only resignation at the knowledge that she could be killed if she refused.

'He knew what the Romans would do to her,' he hears Esca's voice in his head, flat and resigned. 'She knelt at his feet, and he slit her throat. Rome did that too.'

He hardly notices that his host hands him a cup of wine, drinks from it without tasting anything.

“I could not think of a better man to help us with this endeavor,” he finally hears Lucius Cornelius saying and forces himself to listen again.

“To think that you are truly the only man to ever travel north of the wall, and come back from it. And with such a great treasure as well,” the senator says, all smooth-tongued and smiling, toasting Marcus with his cup.

Marcus smiles noncommittally, still barely _there_ , but it seems to be enough for the senator to continue:

„It's hard to imagine what you must have gone through. You must be eager to go back and finally conquer this last part of Britain and punish the barbarians for what they did to your father's legion.“

And yes, Marcus knows that he should be. This is what he has always wanted, isn't it, what he was raised to do: Bring Rome to the corners of the world that are still populated by savages, for the honor and glory of the Roman Empire and his family.

But when he looks up and straight into the eyes of the Egyptian slave, watching him carefully from her place at her owner's feet, her face starts to blend into that of the Seal Prince, washed clean of paint in the streaming water of the river, so young and fragile in death, into that of the little boy, staring up at Esca in admiration and hope, into Esca's face when he watched the boy die at the hand of his father; and he thinks of Guern, who left behind a wife and two children when he decided to follow Marcus's call.

And Marcus wonders how many more good men will die when the Ninth marches north, how many children will grow up without their fathers, and all that for a piece of land that Rome has no use for, for an Empire that does not need more laurels to adorn itself with.

His cup tumbles to the ground when he jumps up abruptly, red liquid spilling out over the tiles. “I am sorry, I need to go,” he says hastily. Lucius Cornelius raises his brows at him, and even the slave girl looks at him with wide eyes.

“Are you unwell?” the senator asks, and Marcus shakes his head. “I'm … my companion is sick,” he finally chokes out, and doesn't wait around to see the senator's reaction.

He stops to throw up against a wall as soon as he's left the senator's property, propped up against the stone, heaving until there's nothing left to throw up but bile.

“Are you alright, Sir?” a merchant woman asks, from a respectful distance, wary but honestly concerned.

“I am fine, thank you, woman,” he says. He doesn't know who he's trying to convince.

 

 

When he gets back to his uncle's house, the physician meets him at the door to Esca's room.

“How is he?” Marcus asks, and the physician shrugs.

“Conscious, but delirious.”

The way he says it doesn't make it sound like good news, but Marcus latches onto the word _conscious_ and holds onto it firmly when he crouches at Esca's bedside.

Esca's face is hot-red, and glistening with sweat, but his eyes are open, and they seem to fixate onto Marcus' face after a moment of vacant staring.

“Marcus?” Esca breathes, and Marcus doesn't stop to think before he reaches to take Esca's hand into his own, fingers fragile and dry against his own.

“Yes, it's me, Esca,” he says, “I'm here.”

“Marcus,” Esca sighs again, like in relief, but then he suddenly surges up from his pallet, free hand fisting in the fabric of Marcus' tunic in an unexpected effort.

“Marcus,” he says, urgently, desperately, “I've seen them.”

Marcus feels his stomach tighten in something like fear. “Who, Esca?” he asks gently, petting his hand in a weak attempt to calm him down. “Who is it you've seen?”

Esca's grip on his tunic doesn't loosen, and his eyes are full of a nameless terror. He says something in Briton that Marcus doesn't quite understand, but he thinks he catches the native name of the little seal boy, and the fear reaches for his heart.

“I've seen them all,” Esca pants, switching to Latin once again. “This is … this is their punishment for my betrayal. I deserve it, I know, their blood is on my hands …. but Marcus, I'm scared.”

Marcus feels tears prickling in the back of his eyes. He loosens his hold on Esca's hand to pull his body close, wraps him into a tight embrace, and tries not to think about how cruel it is that these are the circumstances that would allow him to hold Esca like he's wanted to all this time.

He can feel Esca shuddering against him, bony shoulders jerking under his grip, and he starts to run his hands up and down Esca's back, up and down, in a constant soothing motion.

“Shh, no, Esca,” he says. “It's not your fault. You did what you had to, to save your own life. To save mine. I would be dead if it wasn't for you, you know that, don't you?”

Esca is sobbing into his chest, mumbling in Briton and Latin, but he doesn't fight Marcus' hold, and after a while, he calms down, his motions slowly growing weaker until he sags down, Marcus' arms the only thing holding him up.

Marcus is dimly aware that he's actually crying while he carefully lowers Esca back onto the sheet, wipes his damp face with the wet cloth that the physician has left on the side table.

“Apollo,” he prays, “please give this man the will and the strength to get well. Take whatever you want from me, my health, my name, my life, I offer it to you gladly and willingly, if only you don't take Esca from me.”

He drops the cloth back onto the table and starts to get up, but then he hesitates, and in a moment of weakness, he bends down to press a kiss against Esca's hot forehead.

 

 

That night, Esca's fever finally breaks. And Marcus goes to see the governor, and then his uncle, to start and pay the dept that he owes to Apoll.

 

 

The first few days of his recovery, Esca is weaker than a newborn kitten, and seems to weigh about as much.

He is lucid, though, whenever he's awake, and Marcus thanks the Gods when he finally sees the look from his clear eyes directed at him.

“What happened?” Esca breathes, only barely moving his lips.

Marcus smiles quietly and daringly brushes a fleeting touch against Esca's jaw.

“You were very stupid,” he says earnestly. “You didn't tell me you were sick. You were unconscious for days.”

Esca swallows painfully. “Did I shame myself?” he asks tonelessly, and Marcus doesn't know whether to laugh or cry when he recognizes the words as his own.

“No,” he finally whispers, when he is sure that he has control over his voice. “But I did. Please forgive me for not being a better friend.”

He makes as if to stand, but Esca lifts a weak hand, motioning him back close again.

“Stay,” he rasps. “I want ...” His hand flops back down against the bed, but Marcus understands anyway.

He kneels on the bed and lifts Esca's body so that he can slip in behind him, then lowers him back against his chest, Esca's legs between the open V of his own.

He reaches for the cup of water on the stand next to the bed and holds it to Esca's lips, feeding him the liquid drop by drop until Esca moves his face away, turning it into the hollow of Marcus' neck, finally falling asleep with his mouth against Marcus' skin.

 

 

The next time they talk, Esca is a lot more awake, although he is still too weak to do more than lift his hands.

“You shouldn't be here,” is the first thing he says, and Marcus feels the sting at his words before he sees Esca's fond smile.

“Not like this,” he lightly shakes his head. “Just … your command. Shouldn't you be getting ready? Shouldn't you be with your soldiers?”

Marcus looks away. “Don't worry about it,” he says lightly, playing with the corner of a sheet. “You should just focus on getting better fast.”

But Esca's hand sneaks out to touch his wrist while his face pulls into a frown. “What happened?” he insists. “Don't act like I'm stupid.”

Marcus sighs. He had hoped to be able to put this conversation off until Esca is better, but it looks like there won't be any secrets between them.

“Maybe,” he starts hesitantly. “Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I don't want to be a soldier after all. Maybe I declined their offer.”

Esca draws a sharp breath, and his fingers on Marcus' wrist tighten. “Why would you do that?” he asks, and Marcus is surprised at the urgency, the fear in his eyes.

“Did something bad happen?”

Marcus wants to tell him: _Nothing, except that the man I've come to love almost died_ ; but he doesn't. Instead, he says steadily:

“Maybe I realized that glory is not everything that is there to live for. Maybe I saw that Rome does not treat all her children equally, and that some might be happier outside her reach. Maybe I pulled some favors to convince the governor to get me an administrative post in Cavella. Maybe I bought a piece of land outside town.”

Esca looks at him in consternation.

“But why?” he rasps. “What would make you give up your dream?”

Marcus swallows.

“Don't you know?” he asks. He turns his hand over in Esca's grasp, then, so that their fingers are entwined, and lifts their hands up to his mouth, kissing Esca's knuckles briefly.

Then he drops their hands and looks away, because if Esca rejects him now, he does not want to see.

He says, “Maybe I'd want you to come live there with me.” And then he waits.

For a long moment, everything he can hear is their breathing, his own forcibly measured and calm, Esca's still rough and painful.

Then Esca says quietly: “I'm cold,” and he whips his head around in surprise at the non-sequitur.

But when he looks down at Esca, the Briton is smiling lightly. “Lie with me,” he says. “Share your warmth.”

And his fingers are playing a tender rhythm against the pulse of Marcus's wrist. To Marcus, it sounds like a love song.


End file.
